


No One Else Can Hear Me

by comefeedtherainn



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-02-22 03:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13157988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comefeedtherainn/pseuds/comefeedtherainn
Summary: Just a couple of grimmons blurbs that I put up on tumblr for writing memes! In the first, Simmons gets injured and Grif has to try not to lose his shit. In the second, Simmons has already lost his shit and Grif is trying to calm him down.





	1. Chapter 1

Why couldn’t they ever have a nice, peaceful, in-and-out weapons raid? Just once?

Grif muttered as much to himself as he ducked behind a slab of crumbled cement that used to be a wall, shoving ammo into his gun. “This is some bullshit,” he called louder, loud enough that Simmons could hear as he peaked his head out of cover beside him.

“Yeah, no shit,” Simmons shouted back, propping himself up on one knee and firing at the oncoming mercs. “Did somebody call for an extraction yet?!”

“Wash did, ETA’s five minutes.”

“Fucking balls.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Grif parroted. He glanced over the edge of the concrete, preparing to start fucking shit up, when suddenly there was a cracking sound that assaulted his eardrums, echoing around them, and a combination of force and debris that sent himself and Simmons flying a few feet away from their previous position. Grif landed hard on his back, gasping hoarsely as the wind was knocked out of him, but otherwise unharmed as his armor took most of the damage. He slowly regained breath after a long few moments, blinking as his vision swam back as well. He groaned and pushed himself up to sit, waving his hand in front of his face to clear the dust. “Simmons!” he called, though he could only hear his voice muffled, like he was underwater. “Simmons!”

He got to his feet with a grunt, his hearing slowly returning and overlaid with a high-pitched ring. That was gonna get fucking annoying. He shook his head to clear it and looked around, swearing softly when he didn’t see any maroon in the now mostly collapsed section of skeletal buildings. He ducked when a few shots pinged the wall beside his head, slamming his back up against something solid as he searched from the ground instead. He paused when he thought he saw an armored pair of legs peeking out from behind a felled wall, gray with dust.

He shifted onto his stomach, taking a quick, sharp breath before beginning to crawl, keeping himself low to the ground to avoid further gunfire. He made it in one piece (somewhat surprised about it, if he was being honest), and sat up properly before getting a good look at what was, indeed, Simmons. He was resting against a block of concrete, his helmet off; Grif glanced to the side and saw his visor had been shattered. What was worse was that Simmons was breathing erratically, his eyes wide and frantic, and his hand was clutching a dirty slab of debris of some sort. It had wedged itself into his side, where the armor separated between rib cage and hip bone. Before Grif could tell him to stop, Simmons had yanked it out in a panic, blood spurting out after it and flecking the dirty ground.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Simmons,” Grif snapped, crawling forward and nearly falling onto him as he slammed his own hand over the wound. Simmons’ covered it and increased the pressure, though they were shaking as his face drained of color. “What the fuck did you do that for?” Grif snarled, his heart racing so quickly he got a little dizzy. No time for that now, though. Simmons’ blood was warm against his hand, already soaking his glove.

“D-didn’t think,” Simmons stuttered, sheet white and grimacing. “Sorry. Ugh. That fucking h-hurts,” he muttered.

“Yeah, no shit.” Grif patted around on his suit, swearing harshly as he realized he had no fucking medigel. “Fuck. Fuck me!” he growled, slamming the comm button on his helmet. “This is Captain Grif, I need medical assistance, right fucking now! Man down, I need fucking medical assistance!”

“Read you, Captain!” came Donut’s voice, a little breathless. “On my way to your location!”

“Hurry the fuck up,” Grif snapped, leaving the line open as he turned back to Simmons. “Hey, hey, no,” he said firmly, shuffling forward as Simmons’ head started to loll forward. “Dick, look at me.” He used his free hand to cup Simmons’ cheek, tilting his head upward and looking into his glazed over eyes. “Hey. Stay with me,” he murmured.

“Feel like shiiiiit,” Simmons slurred, blinking sluggishly and slumping sideways a bit.

“Yeah, that’s because you’re bleeding out like a fucking faucet, asshole,” Grif snorted, stroking a patch of freckles with his thumb. “You’re gonna be fine. Donut’s coming.”

“Why th’fug izzat better…?” Simmons snorted, resting his head on Grif’s hand as it got too heavy.

“Because he’s got medigel, smartass,” Grif laughed shakily, propping Simmons’ head back up. “Hey. No napping on the job. There’s only room for one of us around here.”

Simmons snorted, opening his eyes halfway and looking at him with a bit more focus. “I love you.”

“Don’t,” Grif told him sharply. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Simmons just mumbled something in response, his eyes sliding closed. Grif was just starting to panic when Donut rounded the corner, backing toward them while firing his pistol in the opposite direction. After a couple more shots he spun toward them and dropped to his knees. “Here,” he said, shoving the canister into Grif’s hand. “I’ll cover you.”

Grif nodded, moving closer to Simmons’ side as Donut got to his feet again and defended their position. He pulled his hand away from the wound, grimacing as he realized it wasn’t bleeding any slower. “Alright,” he murmured, only loud enough so Simmons could hear. “This is gonna hurt.” He wrapped one arm around Simmons’ body to keep him still, and held the canister in his free hand. He took a breath, then stuck it inside of the wound and pushed down on the trigger.

Simmons screamed so loud his voice broke, thrashing against Grif’s arm and tossing his head. “I know,” Grif muttered, swallowing as he continued. “Just a little more, I’ve got you.”

Simmons’ screams died down after a few long moments, although Grif wasn’t sure that the groans were much better, or the head-to-toe shaking. He grimaced as he plugged the rest of the wound as best he could, holding onto the nearly-empty canister just in case they needed the rest.

“Grif, our ride’s here!” Donut shouted down at him, trying to be heard over the sudden rush of wind and gunfire. “Let’s go!”

Grif scrambled to his feet, stooping and taking Simmons into his arms. Holding him bridal style he jogged after Donut, who defended all three of them with his handgun as they ran. They made it to the pelican without any further injuries, although Donut and Grif both earned a couple new scrapes in their armor from pinging bullets. Wash shoved them both into the bird with a rough hand on their backs, shouting over the din for everyone to board. Once everyone was accounted for he dove in himself, and the mercs and rubble below began to shrink as they rose into the air.

Grif sank to the floor instantly, setting Simmons down as gently as he could in a lurching aircraft. He was out fucking cold, and still deathly white, but he seemed to be breathing okay. The medigel was doing its job, and the only blood was what had already been spilled. Which was a fuckton. Grif grimaced as he glimpsed his soaked glove and crimson painted bracer. He tried to ignore the coppery smell, or else he might actually fucking puke.

“He stable?”

Grif glanced up at the gruff voice, nodding when he saw Sarge standing over them with his helmet underneath his arm. His bushy, dark eyebrows were pulled in and down, the lines in his forehead more pronounced. “Yeah,” Grif responded shortly, looking back down. “He’s good, for now. Bled a lot, though.”

Sarge nodded, clapping Grif’s shoulder firmly. “We’ve got ‘im. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

Grif snorted, lifting his eyes to the ceiling without much venom. He watched Sarge go to make a show out of assessing other injuries, declaring that this battle had been just another example of why Red team was superior, given that they had only sustained one injury while all of the Blues had been shot at least once. Though, Grif noted, no one was laying prone on the floor of the pelican. And the wounds were pretty minor. Still…little victories. Suck it, Blues.

He sat with his back against the wall, pulling Simmons carefully until his head was resting in his lap. Simmons didn’t wake, but he did turn his head toward Grif’s stomach in his sleep, pressing his forehead into the warmth. Grif took a deep breath, pulling off his blood-soaked glove and running his clean fingers through Simmons’ hair.

“I’ve got you. Asshole.”

***

“Dex, I’m really not in the mood.”

Simmons pursed his lips as Grif appeared to either not hear him or not give a shit, propping his shoulder up on the doorframe and crossing his arms casually. “In the mood for what?”

“Whatever you’re here for. I don’t need you to check up on me every time something stupid happens.”

“Yeah, well,” Grif scoffed, and Simmons sighed heavily through his nose as he pushed off the doorway and stepped in Simmons’ quarters (although, with the amount of times they’d shared the bed, it was technically both of theirs). “I’m gonna keep doing it anyway, because you get bitchy if you stew on your own.”

Simmons huffed sharply and got to his feet, giving him a dirty look. “If this is your way of making me feel better, you’re doing a really shitty job.”

“Am not. You’re just impossible to calm down,” Grif snorted, folding his arms once more and watching Simmons as he began to pace up and down the tiny room. “It’s like a fucking hurricane; just gotta wait it out.”

“Shut up, Grif,” Simmons snapped.

“Hey, I’m just sayin’. Don’t get mad at me, you’re the one with the fiery temper. Is that a ginger thing or…?”

“I said shut up,” Simmons hissed, stopping his pacing and whirling on Grif, who didn’t even flinch.

Grif leaned against the wall, resting his weight on one hip and raising a dark eyebrow. “Why don’t you fucking make me?”

Simmons swallowed, narrowing his eyes. He knew exactly what the fuck Grif was doing, and the tiny smirk on Grif’s lips was the only thing that kept him from stopping himself as he slammed Grif up against the wall and kissed him hard. Grif had been ready for it, apparently, because his head stayed steady and he returned the kiss with teeth and bruising force, letting Simmons grip his wrists and pin them on either side of his head.

“See? Feisty,” he teased, grinning when Simmons growled lowly.

“You are such a pain in the ass,” he grumbled, before diving on his mouth again, trading nips and bites and feeling something settle in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured I'd just use this fic to add grimmons blurbs that I write on tumblr! This one's another prompt I got for a writing meme. Speaking of - y'all can follow me @comefeedtherainn if you want. Although I mostly post mass effect these days...>_>

Simmons wasn’t sure why he kept telling his jackass boyfriend it was okay to come over and hang out while he studied. Grif always insisted that he had work to get done, too, that Simmons wouldn’t even know he was there. And every damn time they ended up naked and with no work done. Luckily they hadn’t quite gotten to that point yet, Simmons still bent over his books and scribbling furiously in his notebook, but they were getting there. Grif was sprawled out on the bed beside him one arm behind his head and the other lazily scrolling his phone. His shirt was riding up a bit, revealing a hint of distractingly soft flesh. His knees were bent, feet pressed to the mattress and gravity pulling the legs of his shorts down to show off a bit of his thighs. Fucking Grif.

Simmons bent further over his notebook, trying to repress his thirst at least until the end of the chapter. His exam was in two days, for fuck’s sake. At one point Grif apparently got uncomfortable and arched, groaning quietly and cracking his back. Simmons slammed his pen down, head snapping toward him and glaring. “Stop being so attractive!”

Grif looked up at him, blinking with wide eyes and slightly parted lips. “Uh…what?”

“You! You’re being…distracting,” Simmons huffed, gesturing vaguely toward…all of him. Bastard.

Grif stared at him for another moment, before slowly grinning. “Sounds like a personal problem, man.” He punctuated the sentence by stretching his arms over his head, his biceps flexing and ohhh that bastard.

Simmons pushed his notebook textbook onto the floor, his pen clattering to the cheap tile. He straddled Grif’s waist with one move, swinging his leg over and looming over him with pursed lips. “You are the worst person.”

His jackass boyfriend dazzled him with a shit-eating grin, holding onto his bony hips and squeezing. “And yet, here you are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Links to the tumblr posts below, if anyone cares :D
> 
> http://comefeedtherainn.tumblr.com/post/166860725845/if-youre-doing-the-writing-prompts-how-about-hey
> 
> http://comefeedtherainn.tumblr.com/post/166887986545/still-doing-prompts-cuz-i-would-love-make-me


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